Unmasked- Act 2- Issue 4- Crutches
by Thedude2222
Summary: A Gotham novel detailing the end of the legend of Batman.


Issue 15:

Crutches

Paul Dekkar stood in the darkness surrounded by light. Abstract colors pulsated in twisting amorphous patterns. The helmet over his head blinked and hummed as he stood hypnotized at the unseen world before him. Through his window cars smiled and blinked like an animated movie. Street lamps swayed splashing yellow light in the form of a liquid drenching anything and anyone that walked underneath them. The few birds left in the fading day streaked across the sky leaving jet streams of neon rainbows.

In the purest of pastels the sunset itself was reversed with darker colors from the sun emanating lighter shades the further away from it. The frame appeared a negative in more than blacks and whites. Smack in the middle an old maple tree waved a million leafy faces each attached to a vein of a different color leading back to its immense woody heart. Across the mountainous street the apartment building stretched impossibly high into the sky. Every window displayed another building visible through it, and every window of that building had another building he could fall endlessly into forever.

The people were truly a sight to behold. All hues and shapes some displayed wings feathered or insectoid. Some wore halos of gold and others weaves of curly green moss. A few shone with a natural light. Many were variations of fairies, trolls, goblins, angels and other miscellaneous monsters. Many were moving in groups surrounded by an individual aura of amethysts, emeralds, ambers, aquamarines, and rubies.

A few carried weapons or instruments. Some trailed warm green phosphorescence and others travelled under small clouds in torrential downpours. All past and future was written upon each face open and eager to be read. The people went on forever in parallel river currents moving in opposite directions.

Adjoining the apartment building small shops aided the consumption of the masses. Somewhere far away people created goods. These goods were shipped to the stores that flashed headache inducing bright signs that said Open, Clearance, and 2 for 1. Every day their doors swung wide, and the people swarmed in exchanging green paper for towel rods, ten pound test line, or over mitts.

It made them feel good to purchase something new to bring home and add to their piles of possessions. Cartoon characters advertised goods in desperate dances across the store windows. Inside Paul could see registers staffed by those very same characters in heavy felt suits and oversized heads. When he felt ready Paul dipped his brush in the paint and put it to the canvas.

Many years ago Paul Dekkar was a fairly prolific painter. When his style faded out of favor with Gotham's critics he turned to a life of crime. This directly contributed to an accident where he was left blinded. With some help from others he designed and donned a helmet and quirky, colorful costume becoming the most laughable villain the world had ever seen. He called himself Crazy Quilt.

Although the helmet graced him with partial sight and the ability to hypnotize those who gazed upon its flashing colors, it also slowly drove him to experience schizophrenic type hallucinations and various other mental maladies. Surprisingly his multiple visits to Arkham Asylum and abstinence from using the helmet helped ease his suffering.

On release the state set him up with permanent disability and guided him to a fixed cost apartment with just enough allowance left over for some groceries. For years now Paul lived relatively isolated and contributed nothing to society until four months ago when he felt an inexplicable need to paint something. Due to his ocular disability this posed obvious problems in creating his art, so Paul did something he knew he shouldn't have.

Under his bed in a locked trunk he found his original prototype helmet kept merely as a souvenir of his shameful past. After a few adjustments from years of experience Paul had the helmet up and running as good as any other after it. His original costume didn't fare as well as his helmet in storage. Moths chewed holes all over it but somehow it still fit. Despite the distortions and rogue, unseen spectrum flashes the ability to see changed his demeanor entirely.

It was the little things he noticed that made the largest impression like the door handle, the water faucet, and the plastic wrapper that never made it all the way in the garbage can. As a test he walked down the hall with the hypnotizer function on full and paid his landlord rent with Monopoly money. His landlord Shawn Donovan accepted it happily unconcerned by the shining helmet or beat up costume. With his first trial a success Paul planned a real heist as his villainous alter ego.

Two hours later a common taxi driven by a malleable driver stopped in front of Thelma's Fabrics, a store in the Gotham Eagle strip mall on the west end of the city. Paul stepped out in full costume ordering the driver to wait. Although Sunday afternoon the expansive parking lot stood maybe a quarter full. Crazy Quilt swung both weathered glass doors open dodging two old Russian women who muttered something threatening in their native tongue.

Inside it was surprisingly quiet despite four running registers and people, mostly women, lined up to check out. No one so much as looked up to see his bizarre getup. Standing still waiting for a reaction Paul finally decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Alright everyone this is a hold up! Stay calm and you won't get hurt!" he shouted through the front of the store, "Crazy Quilt has returned to Gotham!" Amazingly not a single person looked up or reacted. Paul stood confused for a moment then switched off his hypnotizer and approached the teenager at the nearest register.

"Did you hear what I said?" Paul asked, "This is a robbery."

"Yeah I heard you. Take what you want just don't leave a mess back there," the young girl replied.

"You don't care?"  
"Mister they pay me minimum wage with no benefits. Why would I care? Hell, half these old ladies got stuff squirrelled away in their purses they'll walk out with only they don't put on ridiculous costumes," she answered tiredly.

"Can I pay with a check?" the next woman in line asked digging through her purse. A young boy emerged from the pile of goods in the cart and his eyes lit up when he saw Crazy Quilt.

"Momma, can I play with the clown?"

"Absolutely not," she replied frowning at Paul, "He looks like a dirty hobo." Head hung in embarrassment Paul shuffled toward the back but stopped and turned again to the clerk.

"Where are your paint supplies?" he asked meekly.

"Aisle 9."

Four months later Paul's apartment held eleven completed paintings and he hadn't stopped yet. The sun set completely while he finished the latest piece so he set it aside. He beat his brushes in a cup of thinner and gathered up the tubes of oil paint. Twice now he returned to Thelma's Fabrics to renew his supplies and walked out without paying. Costumeless he found it even easier to steal what he needed. A knock at the door interrupted his cleaning.

When he reached for the knob he realized the mask still hummed on his head. Quickly he set it aside and opened the door. Sightless now Paul relied on his other senses to pick up the slack. The perfume struck him first, feminine with a hint of musk to bring it down a level. He heard her breath soft but audible and judging by its focal point she was an inch or two shorter than him.

"Hewwo, muh name is Wehn'dy," she said and Paul was immediately taken aback by her voice. He said nothing and after a pause she continued talking that way.

"Anyway I jus' moved in upstaiws an' wan'ned tuh stop by an' innaduce myself. Shawnuh tol' meh I shoul'."

"Shawn told you to come by here and make fun of me? What kind of person would do something like that?"  
"Whuh do yuh mean?" she asked. A pent up rage bubbled in Paul who couldn't seem to think straight. He couldn't wrap his head around why someone would put him on like this. For some reason it made him feel extremely vulnerable and helpless.

"Your voice," he nearly shouted, "I'm blind not mentally handicapped. Regardless you shouldn't patronize someone with a disability. It's not funny so please leave." She began to say something but he slammed the door in her face. After he heard her walking off down the hall he waited a few more minutes then opened the door and counted the paces to Shawn's apartment. Paul barged into Shawn's room which was typically unlocked calling his name. Shawn responded from his usual place on the couch.

"I'm right here, Paul."

"What the hell was that? You send some woman to my room and she tries to make fun of me. What kind of people are you renting to?"  
"Slow down. I rented Wendy her room because she has a disability too. She's deaf. No one was making fun of you. That's her voice. That's the way she talks. It's not like she can sign to you," Shawn explained. There was a moment of silence and everything fell into place for Paul. Instantly he'd never felt so ashamed of himself in his life. That is until he heard two different breathing patterns in the room along with his own.

"She's in here with us right now isn't she?" he asked. To his right he heard a huff and Wendy moved toward the door. She must have been complaining to Shawn when he stormed into the apartment.

"Et wuh nice mee'ing you, Pauw," she answered and left. Paul stood deflated until Shawn finally spoke.

"You need a beer, bud?"

"Is that what people usually drink when they've made horrible asses of themselves?"

"Yeah definitely," Shawn assured.

The next night he arrived at her door with a bouquet of flowers a woman at the store suggested. Wendy answered the door and he immediately smelled her perfume and almost tasted the water vapor carrying a hint of honeysuckle shampoo evaporating off her freshly washed hair. Paul also caught a faint odor of dog in her place. From near her legs he heard panting and a deep growl.

"Heel Geowge, he's okay foh now," she stated and the dog sat with tags jingling. Later Paul would learn George was a five year old Doberman sleek, strong, and gentle as a breeze unless someone upset the love of his life Wendy. George's favorite thing in the world was children, and he would beg and whine to go play when he saw them in the park on his walks. For now though George sat lip curled and never took his eyes off Paul.

"Can ah help you?" she asked without a hint of anger in her voice.

"Wendy, I just wanted to say how sorry I am about yesterday. I feel like such a jerk at how I treated you. It was a horrible mistake."

"Tha's alwight, I fohgive you," she said through a smile he could hear. Incredibly the more she spoke the less he heard her speech affectation. Eventually he voice didn't even sound different. It was just her voice uniquely her own.

"You should come in," she offered opening the door. At this invitation George turned and trotted back to his dog bed to assure his spot wouldn't be taken by the visitor. Paul stepped in remembering the flowers and extended them to her. He also set a rectangular package wrapped in brown paper against his leg.

"They're beautiful. Thank you," she said smelling the flowers. From the top of the refrigerator she retrieved a vase and arranged them on the kitchen table.

"And what's this?" she asked picking up the package.

"That's for you too. It's the best apology I can give and that's not much," Paul explained sheepishly. Tearing off the paper she discovered an urban landscape centered around the Gotham Fountain.

"I love it," she cooed, "Look at all the little people monsters."

"How can you be so gracious after the things I said?" he asked as she led him to the couch.

"It's not really my grace to give," she replied.

"What do you mean?"

"Are you a religious man, Paul?" she asked instead of answering.

"I don't really think about it."

"You should. Whether you believe or not just the act of considering the metaphysical is an accomplishment in and of itself. That's what truly separates us from animals, the consideration of things outside ourselves and our basic needs in life even only for a moment. Can I ask you something else a little off topic?"

"Sure," Paul agreed.

"How did you paint this?"

"If you come by my place sometime I'll show you."

"Tomorrow night then," she promised.

Paul showed Wendy the helmet and his amateur studio the next night. She couldn't have been more enthusiastic. Slowly over the next month they began seeing more and more of each other until it was clear though unspoken that they were dating. He loved spending time with Wendy and she made everything easy, but his art was making him suffer.

The helmet brought back the whispers and insomnia. Quickly Wendy recognized something was wrong but initially ignored it. Until one night the truth emerged when the two of them were at Paul's with her friend Tammy who wanted to get to know Paul better. During a discussion on the origin of last names Tammy heard Paul's last name was Dekkar. She grew very excited.

"Oh my God, are you Crazy Quilt?" she squealed. Tammy enjoyed reading about supervillains like others studied serial killers. Wendy asked what Crazy Quilt was and Tammy stopped stunned at her blunder. Embarrassed she excused herself so the two of them could talk about it. Anxiously Paul guided Wendy to a website on her phone about Gotham's caped criminals and let her read his shameful biography. She sat quietly after finishing and stared at the screen.

"This isn't who you are anymore," she stated.

"No it isn't."

"And the helmet?"

"I only use it to paint," he explained.

"Is it hurting you like it did before?" she asked and Paul sighed since he knew he wouldn't lie to her.

"Yes. I'm getting headaches, losing time, and hearing things," he admitted. The last week his symptoms grew worse than ever. Wendy folded her hands in her lap.

"Why do you paint, Paul?"

"It makes me happy, I guess."

"No, give me the real reason," she pressed.

"There's something out there. Something I tap into just out of sight. I think it could help or explain some things. I feel like if I just painted it well enough I could fix it all. Because no one in this city really wants anything to change. Its hero beats people to a pulp and leaves them tied up for the cops to throw them away into Arkham again."

"Do you know what a psychologist would call that, Paul? A messiah complex and that never turns out well for people. Somehow I still don't believe that. If that were the case these paintings wouldn't still be here," she stated motioning around the room. The art was beginning to crowd out the furniture.

"I think you only really want to save yourself, but these won't fix you. I won't fix you, and that helmet definitely won't fix you. I think you're scared of what will happen when you let these paintings go. If people hate them it will have all been for nothing. Even worse if they like them they'll expect more and better out of you. You need to look at it all another way. Once you finish a piece and put that brush down it doesn't matter what happens afterwards. You already won. They can't take the work away from you."

"I don't know what you want me to say, Wendy," Paul responded.

"Say you'll give it up. Throw away the helmet. Find another way."  
"No." He stated firmly, "I can't quit now." That seemed to be the only thing of which he was certain.

"Fine, I'm going to stay with my sister for the weekend. I'll check in on you when I get back," she explained flatly and left without another word. He'd never seen her so upset.

Later that night after returning from Wendy's, Paul heard a knock at the door and paused his painting to answer it. Using his helmet he immediately identified the visitor simply by the shape of his smooth oversized head.

"Who is it?" Paul teased through the door.

"Sir if I may have a moment of your time to discuss an exciting offer regarding vinyl siding and the lasting value it can add to your home," the muffled voice responded. Paul swung the door open and could imagine him standing there as if he could see again.

"I live in an apartment," Paul played along, "What else do you have?" The man at his door Edgar Heed was born with an oversized brain and a head without hair that slowly grew into the shape of an egg. Like Edward Nigma, Pamela Isley, or Harley Quinzel, Edgar was born with a name that one day directly informed the personae he would establish which led back to an age old question.

Is it fate bearing the name that leads to the villain or is the alter ego a reinvention of the past? What came first, the chicken or the egg or the curiosity of the first person to wonder the order? As Edgar could have told Paul if he asked, sometimes an answer doesn't exist until a question is asked.

Ed grew up in Temple Hill, Kentucky east of Bowling Green and south of Glasgow. His family lived on a small farm off route 63 four miles north of the elementary school. His mother was a devout Baptist and his father a dimwitted but loyal alcoholic who ran a still tucked between the hills. Ed had nine brothers and sisters: Teddy Jr, Paulina, Kelly Lynn, Sue Anna, himself, Barty, Jessie, Ben, Connor Jim, and Hagar. With such a large family Ed never wanted for company but always craved privacy.

At eighteen he enlisted in the Air Force and served in Vietnam flying supply planes into Saigon. In '72 he ran with the bulls in Pamplona where he watched the love of his life Patrick gored to death next to him. Some years later he got involved with the Cossacks and Olga. Along with a Native American chief they hatched a novel plan to hold the city hostage only be spoiled by Batman and his boy wonder.

After a stint in Blackgate Prison he and Olga travelled the globe like the royalty she was. Every few years Edgar would phone his friend Paul back in Gotham to catch up on the city's gossip. Paul hadn't heard from him since last fall and was surprised yet happy to find Edgar at his door. Never one to abandon a good bit Edgar mocked searching through his coat for something else to sell to his friend.

"What else? What else? Oh, I do have a fine DVD collection of selected episodes from the classic American variety show Hee Haw!"

"Wow, I love George Jones. Is he on there?" Paul asked. Ed gritted his teeth and released a slow groan.

"Unfortunately Mr. Jones does not appear in this showcase," Ed explained sympathetically.

"You know what I really need is a good egg beater," Paul said laughing.

"How dare you, sir? I'd never peddle such unrefined goods as I'm a man of the highest moral fiber." Now they both laughed and shook hands with gusto. A few moments later they sat in Paul's living room having a drink.

"You know I brewed this iced tea a few days ago for the first time in months. It's like I knew you were coming," Paul began.

"Out in the sun like I taught you I hope?" Ed asked and Paul nodded.

"Right on the window sill."

"It's the only way," Ed declared drinking deep, "I see we're painting again. That must be why I kept picking up your signal when I arrived in town."

"My signal?"

"Of course, from your helmet. I picked it up on the Radar Egg. Advances in technology allow it to scan a lot farther than it used to. So what's the plan? Are these paintings implanted with hypnotic suggestions or poisonous paint?"

"What? No I'm just painting to paint."

"I'm confused," Ed replied. So Paul explained everything, going straight, the paintings, Wendy, and even the humiliating robbery of Thelma's Fabrics. Ed listened quietly sipping on his tea here and there until Paul finished.

"She sounds like an absolute sweetheart, and she's right as women usually and frustratingly are," Ed decided after he finished.

"How can you say that? A few minutes ago you were ready to rob the Gotham Treasury with me," Paul accused exasperated at his friend's unsupportive judgement.

"That was before I heard all this. Not to mention that SECURE nonsense gathering up men and women like the Fourth Reich. If I hadn't come on business I'd never have set foot back in this repressed country."

"Hold on, what are you talking about?" Paul asked in confusion.

"When's the last time you turned on a TV? And to think I call you for updates about this city's going-ons," Ed scoffed and it was his turn to explain about the martial law and Gotham's Militia as it was coming to be called. For a moment Paul marveled at just how out of touch he was.

"So not only are you damaging that mush melon of yours, you're also running a direct risk of the gestapo loading you on a train with the other cripples, freaks, and queers. All for what, some pretty pictures? A social commentary on the cultural landscape that will be buried and reformed in ten years? No, you have an opportunity to be happy and live a nice, worry free life with someone who loves you.

Revenge isn't about chilly gazpacho from Andalusia, although delicious, it's about living well. That's all you have to do and you'll be better off than ninety percent of the schmucks in this city. No matter how rich or poor true happiness is hard to come by and harder to hold onto. If I were you I'd take a hammer to that helmet right now."

The conversation changed and Ed went on to regale him with stories of earthquakes in Nepal and the avalanche in the Alps that finally parted him from Olga forever. Unfortunately it also parted Ed from her large fortune. Politely Paul listened and made his best attempt to enjoy the visit with his old friend, but he felt an itch somewhere. The helmet whispered in the corner. Refusing Paul's offer to crash on the couch Ed retired to his penthouse suite at Gotham Plaza Hotel.

Since he wasn't tired Paul put on the helmet and walked the lonely streets of Gotham. Despite the amazing, evolving world laid out before him he found nothing interesting to paint. Aimlessly he wandered framing every street and storefront but the angle eluded him. It seemed just out of reach always flitting ahead through the next alley. Finally he stumbled on it in Gotham Central Park.

Verdant green stretched for acres in front of the bright metropolitan skyline. Exhilarated he ran back to his apartment and gathered his supplies. Thirty minutes later Paul set up in a secluded corner and got to work. Somewhere else someone on some computer registered an energy signature that flagged as abnormal.

Eventually the sun rose on the sleepy city and people began moving through his frame. On the canvas hard, straight lines ran vertically as he slowly constructed the city from nothing. Every brick was a triumph and every glob of mortar was a tragedy. Layer by layer Gotham grew with its buildings like broken teeth behind Mona Lisa's smile. Each time he looked back up from the easel the city seemed larger and fuller.

When he decided the skyline was high enough in his picture he went to cap it only to find it had grown even higher in a span of seconds. The trees bloomed and contracted and bloomed as seasons turned like a looped time lapse recording. Paul watched the trees' life cycles searching for the midway point between their life and death. More, Gotham called to him. Better Paul, do it better, she begged. As the sun slowly slipped from the sky's grasp he continued with the helmet hot on his head.

The people monsters streamed from the buildings carrying briefcases and purses in front of them to ward off the terrifying possibilities of freedom. Over their heads chubby cloud shaped bubbles inflated at varying speeds and bumped off each other like balloons at the state fair. Inside the clouds he saw things he never imagined. Paul saw inventions, technology, music, books, tools, and other objects or ideas he couldn't even identify completely unknown to the rest of the world.

The peoples' unmarred ideas were beyond anything he ever expected. Some were reprehensible or ill advised. Many were useful and life improving. Some were radical and could change the course of human history. A few were miracles or masterpieces. Above each bubble he saw a blade or pin of some kind. Paul knew they'd live out their whole lives without knowing if that pop would ever come.

Into the night Paul documented each and every one until he finally thought to look above his own head. No bubble could be found only an empty guillotine rack with a release cord that led back to his hand holding the brush. Suddenly he could feel that blade in his neck completely severing head from torso. It lay flat on his shoulders and his head stayed on only by its own weight. Then Paul understood his bubble already popped, and the end result splattered across the canvas in front of him. On he worked next to the homeless men who slept restlessly on the metal benches. Still the helmet whirred and flashed in the dark.

That morning he painted the sunlight refracting off the crystal windows until the sky went blue. When he felt wetness under his nose Paul's hand came back covered in blood. Instead of plugging it up he let the bleed drip into the red paint on his palette since the shade was intriguing. That day his hands grew heavier and his legs ached from the inactivity. People walking by now stopped for a moment to stare instead of the normal subtle glance as they passed. His useless eyes began to itch and water.

Paul watched squirrels, rabbits, and insects dwindle away their short, private lives as the sun streaked across the sky. Begging him to stop Paul's body grew weaker but he refused it to quit. Like Wendy, like Ed, his body warned about his limits yet Paul didn't listen. He was close, the image nearly in focus. Another stroke, another shadow pushed him closer. The sun set again and he spit at its temporary resignation. He would create until the end of time and beyond, after the Lovecraftien horrors grew bored of their slimy rule and returned to the deep oceans or solitary space.

"Paul?" he heard Wendy's voice in his head.

"Yes Wendy, this is it. I'm fixing everything. We're almost there. I can almost see it," Paul whispered but jumped when he felt a soft hand on his shoulder.

"Paul, stop this now," Wendy said jerking the helmet off his head. Immediately she dropped it on the grass as the heat coming off it burned her hands. The image went out and everything went back to nothing. In shock he fell to his knees coughing and retching with sweat soaked hair matted to his head and dried blood smeared across his cheeks and mouth.

"Oh no," Wendy cried wrapping her arms around him, "No, no, what did you do to yourself?"

"I did it," he said with a voice coated in gravel, "the painting of it all, of-of everything."

"How long have you been out here?"

"Since a little after you left…I thought you left."

"I did and I came back a day early because I was worried about you. That's forty eight hours! Have you drank or eaten anything?"

"Can you see it? What does it look like?" Paul asked ignoring the question he didn't want to answer. She said nothing.

"Tell me, Wendy! Please," he pressed.

"Nothing. It looks like nothing. You painted layer over layer until everything mixed together. I think you ran out of paint some time ago because your brush is stiff."

"No, you're lying!" he shouted.

"I wouldn't lie to you," she answered quietly, "It's just a thick, muddled blob." Paul buried his face against her neck and sobbed.

"Oh God, Wendy, help me. I don't know where to go." She hugged him tight until it passed. Eventually she supported him on the slow walk back to his apartment. No matter what she said he refused to leave behind the helmet. When they arrived they saw four men in white jumpsuits milling about in Paul's apartment gathering the art together. One man with a clipboard approached looking up and down at Paul's sorry state.

"Are you Paul Dekkar?"

"Yes."  
"I got some more bad news for ya. You're in violation of several federal laws regarding national security. We gotta confiscate these paintings," the supervisor explained.

"Is this about SECURE? What laws have I broken?" Paul demanded.

"Look buddy, we do technically work for SECURE but in reality we're just the garbage men. Far as laws go, all I can tell you is what I got on this pick up order I got in front of me. Oh you got the helmet too? Think that about wraps us up here," the older man reached out for the helmet, but Paul growled and grabbed him by the collar slamming him into the wall. The old man punched Paul right in the stomach knocking the wind out of him.

Paul fell on the floor gasping for breath as the supervisor ordered his men out. They left with precariously stacked towers of art and the helmet that caused it all. As the men tossed paintings into the compactor on the truck the youngest one paused to look at a few.

"Hey boss, you don't think we're like Nazis or anything destroying this art?" he asked.

"What?" the old man said picking up a damaged self-portrait, "Believe me kid, I been doin' this a long time and it ain't got nothing to do with censorship. This stuff just sucks." They tossed the rest in the back and climbed into the truck's cab.

"So what were you sayin' earlier?" the old man asked.

"Oh just that I heard you're never more than five feet from a spider," the younger on said picking up his half eaten, crème filled doughnut off the dashboard.

"Even in your car?" the old man asked.

"Yep."  
"Who told you that, Arturrio? Cause I wouldn't listen to a word he says."

"No," the younger responded, "I read it somewhere. It was some statistic."

"Oh," the older man said eyeing the doughnut, "Look at all the crème spilling out of that thing. Your next bite is gonna be amazing."

"Meh, I kinda like the crusty outside better." The old man shook his head at this.

"What the hell's wrong with you, boy?"

Through the open window Paul heard the truck pulling away then began the longest week of his life. Wendy cooked for him and nursed him back to health but mentally he was broken. Even George licked his hand from time to time in solidarity. Rarely speaking he listened to the TV occasionally. He read a few books in braille only to abandon it halfway through them. Sometimes Wendy would demand he leave the apartment, so they would walk streets that all felt the same.

Paul felt like a prisoner without the sight. He felt like he stood in front of a black tinted door, and beyond that door was a bustling of life they treated like an inconvenience. He felt like a two hundred year old exhibit worn down and desecrated by a million curious fingers coated in grease.

"Can you feel it, Paul?" Wendy asked as they shared a bench next to the Gotham fountain, "The cool breeze blowing through your hair?"

"Yeah," he answered simply.

"The sun is shining through the water drops that spray out of the top of the fountain. Kids and adults are tossing coins into the rippling water. People are passing in groups, old men with crinkled newspapers and young women pushing baby carriages. Can you hear the kids on their skateboards rolling by in packs? Can you hear the leaves rubbing together and dancing in the wind?"

"What are you doing?" he asked in disapproval.

"Can you see it?" she asked desperately grabbing his hand. Paul pulled away and turned his head towards hers.

"Wendy, I will never paint again," he proclaimed with mournful confidence, but she didn't say anything in return.

That night after pushing him into a shower he didn't care about Wendy got busy setting up an area in his apartment. As he emerged from the bathroom Paul sense something had changed in the short time he was indisposed. Although neither sound, feel, or smell was different something informed him that the status quo had somehow shifted.

"What's going on?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh not much, I just have something to show you. Will you come over here?" he did and she guided his hand to the fresh canvas on the easel. His hand recoiled at its familiar touch like goose bumped skin. His breath caught in his throat.

"Wendy no-" he began but she shushed him and forced his hand back to it.

"Just feel it," she insisted and he felt fine lines spread across its face like spiderwebs. Instead of a web they ran in a grid pattern against the canvas. Paul followed a line to its tight end on the edge of the canvas. Attached at the edge was a slip of paper shaped like a price tag. On the paper printed in braille was a letter F above that E then D and so on. Along the top he found tags with numbers.

"Each square is a piece of the picture," she explained, "A7, C2, G9, like a paint-by-number. In the park that day you said you didn't know where to go. This is where you go next. Now remember the fountain. Remember the light, the people, the water, and the trees. See it. You have to see it," she begged fixing the brush in his hand. He stood for a long time in silence.

There was a sorrowful period where nothing came, but then the image grew up from his feet. Sidewalk, concrete base of the fountain, tiers rising up like stacked champagne glasses, water sparkling in every direction, the unapologetic sun bathing the world, the people caught in the creation of their own lives: it was all there before his eyes.

"Blue," he finally said and she handed him the palette guiding his hand over the requested color. The feeling of the brush against the canvas was a balm that could heal his hurt. Paul could see again, everything he wanted and more. It was a miracle.


End file.
